


Elves on crack

by Clara_Jimmy



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - chicken, Chickens, Crack, Dagor Dagorath, Far Future, First Age, Gen, Halls of Mandos, Humor, Language, Mild Language, Minor Violence, Outer Space, Prophetic Dreams, Quenya Names, Resurrection, Second Age, War of the Last Alliance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-02-10 07:39:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12907272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clara_Jimmy/pseuds/Clara_Jimmy
Summary: Crack-fics, AUs, just very short writings mostly. Basically anything that´s crazy or strange enough.What it looks like when my stories smoke crack.





	1. iPalantír (or No new phone for you)

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoy this!  
> Let me know if you think there are any errors (for instance in grammar, not logic).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Curufinwë wants a new phone, but Fëanáro disagrees.  
> I don’t know what was happening when I wrote this.

“Father, I want the new iPhone!” Curufinwë whines, hitting the table with his fists.

“No! You´ll get a palantír instead!” Fëanáro replies and points at him as if giving a warning, his eyes uncompromising. The boy scowls, rolls his eyes and starts howling, infuriated. Now he will make a fool out of himself with some junk his dad made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya names:  
> Fëanáro is Fëanor and Curufinwë is Curufin.


	2. The call of Mandos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They say that when an Elf dies they feel the call of Mandos, biding them to come to his Halls.  
> Mandos has a difficult job, or existence rather.

“Could you lend me the phone now?” he asked, growing irritated.

“I´ve told you, just a second,” she replied, covering the speaker and whispering in his direction.

“Vairë…,” Mandos moaned, “this isn’t your random everyday Elf, this is Fëanáro we are speaking about! I need to make a call!”

“But I am talking to Tulkas now!” she replied and continued in her own conversation, meanwhile deftly crossing two threads in the tapestry, which was almost entirely black, with a single beacon of light in the darkness.

In the end Mandos got his turn to use the phone and dialled the direct line to Endórë, calling Fëanáro, leaving it to ring forty two times, but he never picked up. Afterwards Námo sat upon his throne in the Great Hall and hoped the Elf would find the way on his own and show up. But he never did.

\----

Mandos was panicking. There were throngs of Elves in need of a call and he couldn’t find the phone. Vairë saw him all but run into the hall she was in, working at the newest tapestry which was as long as half of the chamber already. Her needles were moving swiftly and she had the phone balanced between the shoulder and the ear. As soon as she started to embroider she thought Nienna might want to hear what was up. Mandos hurried towards her.

“There you are!” he exclaimed, “I need the phone, Vairë, now!”

“Me as well!” his wife replied, “Nienna´s heaving a breakdown… Or maybe you want to talk to her?” Námo made a face and stepped back.

“Not right now,” he spoke, “there is a much more urgent matter here, I have to call three Fëanárions.”

“They´ll wait,” she retorted, weaving together several threads. He made a grab for the phone, but Vairë managed to keep it.

“Eru damnit! Vairë! For the love of this world, this is serious!” he raised his voice. Vairë gave him an annoyed expression, rolled her eyes, but mumbled a goodbye into the phone and walked to him, handing the phone to her husband. He mouthed his thanks, already dialling the appropriate number. Neither of the three picked up. But nerves wouldn’t give him a break and Námo called for a second time, only to reach someone named Únandil, hanging up in hurry.

\----

Then it happened again. And like before the phone wasn’t where it should have been. There were many expecting his call, especially Ambarussar, the Fëanárion twins. But this time Vairë didn’t have it, she was standing on the tallest ladder, embroidering a silver wing.

“I don’t have it, dear!” she called down to the tiny figure below. And a good thing, throwing the phone from this height would probably kill it, she mused.

“Then where is the cursed thing?” he called back.

“Irmo had it!”

“What is my brother doing here?”

“See the tapestry, don’t have time now!” she dismissed him, quickly crossing several long threads. Námo glanced at the tapestry depicting Irmo and then found him, sitting on his throne, his feet on the armrest, the Hall´s phone in his hand.

“Give it now!” he commanded. Irmo looked up.

“The phone, give it to me right now, I have to make an important call!” he said, walking to him.

“Can´t, you see Manwë is telling this joke-,“ he replied, but Námo seized the phone and knocked his feet off the throne.

“Hey!” Irmo protested, but Námo was already dialling Endórë. He gave up after five hours, sighing.

“Looks like nobody´s doing their job here,” a venomous voice said from behind him. Mandos turned and his eyes laid on Fëanáro. He was leaning on the doorframe, a smug expression on his noncorporeal face.

“Where the hell are my sons,” his voice grew dark. Mandos prayed for his nerves to endure.

\----

“I need to make a call,” he said, his voice urgent.

“Well, so do I,” Vairë replied calmly, “you´re just gonna have to wait.”

“Damnit, but this is an important one,” Mandos impatiently tapped his foot on the floor, “Maitimo Fëanárion has just offed himself.” To this Vairë said nothing, only leisurely pointed to the wall. Turning, he saw the large tapestry, all red and orange.

“So you can understand I have an important call to make,” he spoke, reaching for the phone. Vairë evaded him, standing up and then covering the speaker with her hand.

“But I do as well,” she told him, “I´m talking with Estë right now. Go use the other phone.”

“We don’t have another one,” he grunted.

“I know,” she replied, “don’t worry, he´ll wait.” Námo rolled his eyes and Vairë smiled kindly at him. But when he finally called, nobody answered.

\----

At that moment Mandos finally lost his patience and marched out of the Halls, going straight to Aulë´s place.

“You have to make me another of those phones,” he said. Aulë raised an eyebrow, but didn’t object. He set to work immediately and before the night ended Námo had a completely new phone. He would keep this one in his pocket. He returned home, showing it to Vairë proudly.

“I have a feeling Macalaurë Fëanárion will need a call soon,” he said, “anytime now.” Vairë looked at him oddly and got back to embroidering a blue wave and he went to the Great Hall. He took a seat on the throne, put the phone down and waited.

“Anytime now…,” he sighed, watching the phone intently, drumming his fingers on the armrest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The names that are in Quenya:  
> Endórë is one of the names for Middle-earth  
> Fëanáro is Fëanor  
> Fëanárion means son of Fëanáro  
> Ambarussar are Amrod and Amras  
> Maitimo is Maedhros  
> Macalaurë is Maglor  
> Únandil means Destitute/Forlorn Lover/Friend (úna+ndil) (from realelvish.net)


	3. The dream of Sirion, the aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So you´ve had a divine vision? What follows the experience Findaráto and Turukáno had at the bank of Sirion.

Turukáno lifts his head and props himself up on an elbow. His face immediately distorts into an ugly grimace.

“Ah… man, I had the strangest dream…,” he groans, “what the fuck did we do last night?”

I am not faring much better. The world sways left and right, up and down, someone is slamming me into the head with an iron pole, my stomach twists… Not good…

“Ehg….” The sound that comes out of me speaks highly of my disposition.

“Fuck…,” I manage to moan at last, “it must have been that damned wine…”

“And the fucking berries…,” Turukáno adds.

“And the mushrooms…” I remotely recall devouring a handful of some suspicious fungi.

“I dreamed of a valley,” he mumbles slowly then, squinting his eyes to the morning sun.

“I dreamed of a cave…,” I say and scowl. Why do I have to dream about some dirty holes in the ground?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya names:  
> Findaráto is Finrod and Turukáno is Turgon.


	4. Inconsequential

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of the world comes, but nobody cares. Poor Morgoth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tolkien says that the world will end with the last battle, Dagor Dagorath. Morgoth will break free and destroy the Sun and the Moon and, presumably, everyone will fight and the fallen Vala will be defeated. I always thought that even thousands and thousands of years (and even thousands and thousands of Ages from the point of view of the Elves) would be almost nothing compared to the amount of time that is still to come before the End. I expect a full colonisation of the universe by then.

She looked out of the wide window and stared into the outer space for a moment. Her home, the second district of the Nightshade galaxy, beautifully dark and with only a hint of blue and purple, harbouring milliards of planets, stars, outposts and ships, the sight was as elevating as ever. 

“Just some tiny star and some asteroid,” she said, turning back to the room.

“And where exactly?” he asked, frowning, as he tried his best to recall, but it really didn’t sound familiar whatsoever.

“In the X01A223i sector,” she read on the little purple screen in front of her, “somewhere on the outskirts… used to be the founding colony or something, I thought it was interesting.”

“Oh that…,” he murmured. He vaguely remembered having this information shoved in his mind when he was a child. He considered it, it was something of a fun fact.

“Anyway, let´s go out tonight, what do you say?” He smiled at her and she nodded. Taking their identity chips from the table they turned off the lights and left the room.


	5. A wise plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finrod´s and Beren´s aliases when confronting Sauron were rather dubious and silly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the tolkiengateway: “Dungalef (reversal of the name "Felagund") was the name Finrod Felagund took upon himself during the Quest for the Silmaril when disguised as an orc. His companion, Beren Erchamion, took the name of Nereb.”  
> What were they thinking?! And it´s not even reversed properly! It should be “Dnugalef”…

It worked, they were slowly transforming into looking like those creatures, the skin underneath their clothing turning sallow and dark, with visible scars and sores, their faces changing into distorted and unnatural shapes full of malice. Their own clothes didn’t stay the same either, now they were all wearing black and the fabric was thick and tattered and dirty where it wasn’t covered by any armour.

Beren looked around, only seeing eleven more like himself, and it felt utterly strange, knowing these were his companions, friends, elves he knew by names, and not his enemies. He thought the one with the pointy nose who was inspecting his sleeve was Finrod and so he addressed him.

“That at least seemed to work. So, what is the second part of the plan?”

“The castle. We go inside,” the false orc replied, his eyes still on the sleeve.

“Like… just like that?” he asked, still not sure.

“You´re right, we need more disguise!” Finrod said excitedly.

“Like what exactly?” Thalawestorion, maybe, wanted to know.

“Like names,” Finrod replied, giving him an annoyed look, “I can´t go there and say something like, hey, hello, this is the King of Nargothrond, Finrod Felagund here, Nóm, if you like. They would laugh at us, everyone knows I have golden hair.”

“So what names do orcs have anyway?” one not-orc asked.

“No idea, but…,” Finrod appeared to be thinking, “hm…… oh, yes! My name it going to be Dungalef and you Beren will be............ Nereb.”

“Oh, thanks…,” he muttered.

“And you, Ningannelion, you are…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the OC names:  
> Thalawestorion means Son of a Steady Oath Brother (thala+gwest+tôr+ion)  
> Ningannelion means Son of a Tears of a Harp (nîn+gannel+ion)  
> (from realelvish.net)  
> Have fun reversing these names, Nóm.


	6. Anárion´s last stand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The depiction of the most heroic and honourable death of Anárion, son of Elendil, King of Gondor, Founder and Lord of Minas Anor... by a ROCK hitting his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was reading a page on the tolkiengateway and then I came to this: “The Allies entered Mordor and laid the Siege of Barad-dûr, but Anárion was slain by a thrown rock in 3440.”  
> ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?! TOLKIEN?!?!! WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?!!! A ROCK? A FUCKING ROCK?!  
> I think this part of the Legendarium needs a bit of revising. Who cares who Gil-galad´s parents were, just get rid of this rock nonsense.  
> But realism, I suppose. I would be the first one to point out that such deaths happen and not every character should get a heroic death, even if they deserve it.  
> BUT ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME, TOLKIEN?! A FUCKING PIECE OF ROCK?!  
> But perhaps it´s fitting for a king of Gondor (rock land).

Burzmal took a swing and then let the rock leave his hand. It fell down, all the way from the highest point of the Black Gate, until it hit a target he only wished it would hit. He couldn’t aim that well. There was a reason why he and Lugrukh were ordered the maintenance duties and guarding. Still, one could have a bit of fun here and there, Burzmal was sure. The army outside was something he liked to look at and laugh. All those wretched tarks and pointy ears below them, thinking they could outsmart their Lord. They were nothing compared to the Red Eye.

“There´s another for ya!” Burzmal croaked.

“Ha! Yeah, you got him good,” Lugrukh was laughing, leaning on the ramparts and looking down, “my turn next.” He grabbed one of the rocks from the pile on the ground, a chipped off piece of the wall, squinted his yellow eyes and then threw it.

“There ya go, nasty tarks,” he exclaimed. They both laughed harshly and then continued to play some more and the little pile got smaller and smaller.

“And this one!” Burzmal screeched as another rock flew down and this time it also managed to hit someone, crushing the helm.

“Hey, you two dipshits!” a roar came from behind them and they both shrieked in fear, turning immediately. Nogrut was standing in the tunnel leading from the Black Gate, raising his famous axe menacingly.

“Stop that bullshit and get back to your work! Stone not yours! Get working!”

Lugrukh and Burzmal scurried away, keeping their heads down, muttering in agreement, and Nogrut still smacked their heads for good measure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The word “tark” was used by the orcs of Cirith Ungol to refer to Men descended from Númenor.  
> The orcish names are what I came up with. Nogrut is an homage to Finrod´s impeccable creative linguistic skills. It was a surprise, but it works rather well as an orc´s name :D


	7. Káno

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor is resurrected as a chicken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have heard that “kana“ means chicken in Finnish. I will forever treasure that information in my heart. Really, Finnish x Elvish convergences are a goldmine.  
> Kanafinwë (or Canafinwë) is one of Maglor´s names. One of those prophetic one, as it turns out.

It was just as he remembered from his stay there; the trees, tall or small, stood like guards and provided shelter and comfort, their leaves rustling softly, flowers sprang everywhere they wanted, and the air was clear and fresh. Everything that made up the vast Gardens only served to create a peaceful atmosphere for anyone who might need it. The Sun went down two hours ago, and the world was now coloured in greys and dark greens and blues, the night sky was lightly scattered with stars. Lórien lead the way and soon, they reached an open meadow by the lake. No one else was there except for the black clad figure who could only be Mandos. But where was his own brother? 

“Tyelkormo,” the Vala of Doom regarded him, “I am glad to see that you are doing well.” Tyelkormo nodded respectfully and then looked around the glade once again, expectantly searching the shore and the willow trees. 

“So… where is he?” Centuries, it has been centuries since the news of Kanafinwë´s death. He has been in the Halls for a long time and they have waited for what would happen next. Everyone has been beyond anxious to welcome Káno back into the life in Aman. 

Mandos and Lórien exchanged a glance he couldn’t quite read and then Mandos looked at him with an expression than made even less sense; he smiled. 

“He is here,” he spoke, but Tyelkormo didn’t understand. The area was empty; only the three of them, the quiet lake, the trees... He frowned. 

“Your brother chose an unusual way of returning to life,” Lórien spoke gently and finally Tyelkormo´s eyes followed to where they were looking, to the ground and to… a chicken? 

“What the hell is this?!” Tyelkormo motioned towards the ground angrily and then stared at the two Valar. His mind was in turmoil. He realised he has been ignoring the animal standing right next to Mandos, scurrying a little occasionally. What was happening?! What was this chicken doing here? Could- could it be? No. No… no... but then… Could it really be him? Could… Kanafinwë be a chicken? 

“I must be honest, this new hröa suits him perfectly. It has always been his fate,” Mandos said in a calm voice, “this is what he wished for.” 

“What, to be turned into a fowl?!” Tyelkormo snapped and then retorted derogatively, “…I don’t believe you…” He folded his arms across his chest and scoffed, but then he noticed the chicken looking at him and it clucked and started to walk towards him. 

“Kana… Kanafinwë?” he asked warily and slowly approached the animal, “…brother, is that you?” Tyelkormo crouched on the grass and tentatively run his hand over the soft feathers. He could sense his brother´s fëa distinctly now. This really was his brother. It was Káno and he seemed serene, content and… happy? He clucked again, and the sound was excited and happy and in that second something in Tyelkormo switched and he started laughing. 

“I have missed you so much, Káno!” he exclaimed and ruffled his feathers and Káno scuttled around and clucked, sharing in his joy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Names in Quenya:  
> Tyelkormo = Celegorm  
> Kanafinwë = Maglor
> 
> Hröa = body  
> Fëa = spirit/soul


	8. One autumn afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being pretty is so hard. Modern AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Autumn is here. It´s been getting cold, here, in the northern hemisphere, and I´ve been willing myself into an autumn mood. Though it feels more like winter already.  
> Is this even crack?

“It´s like they don’t even see me for me, just my face and how I look like!” Maitimo said, his expression still utterly forlorn, and he kicked at nothing on the street, “you know?” He turned to Macalaurë, who has been walking next to him, mostly silent so far, but now he looked up at his brother. 

“I know it bothers you Nelyo, I understand,” he said, arranging his shawl closer to his neck, protecting himself against the autumn breeze, “but I don’t know what else to tell you. We´ve talked about this so many times.” 

“You really don’t have to say anything else,” Maitimo said and stopped abruptly, “hit me in the face, Cáno.” 

“What?!” 

“Hit me, please, then everything will be alright, and people won´t stare at me like they do now. I´ll be normal, better maybe I´ll even be slightly ugly!” Macalaurë continued to stare at him, blinking in surprise, trying to say something but no words came out of his mouth. 

“Do something with my nose,” Maitimo said and took Macalaurë´s hand, bunching it into a fist and resting it against his nose like it was the most natural thing to do. 

“No! Maitimo stop!” Macalaurë exclaimed and wretched himself free, staring at him with wide eyes, as other people passed them by on the street, glancing at them with suspicion or amusement. 

“Why not? You´ll help me, Cáno, please, I will buy you the new guitar strings you wanted.” 

“No,” he replied, then thought about if for a second, felt appalled by himself and said, “no!”. 

“Cáno!” Maitimo moaned and took his hand again, bringing it to up his face. Macalaurë seemed like he was considering it again. 

“Maybe I should sit down so I am not that tall?” 

“I am certainly not going to hit you then!” At that moment a group of young women passed them in the opposite direction, their eyes clearly set on Maitimo, and two of them giggled. Maitimo just groaned and looked away and Macalaurë sighed. Both annoyed, they hurriedly resumed their walk home. There was silence for a while, only the sounds of the traffic and the wind getting stronger. 

“I will tell mom and dad what you did with Daeron last Tuesday after practice,” Maitimo said, looking straight ahead. His brother gasped, stopping, looking first horrified, then scared and then smug. 

“You won´t have the guts anyway,” he replied, “you´ll blush so hard your head will explode. Ha! That might solve your problem!” 

“Cáno!” Maitimo exclaimed in a whiny tone and then, “please.” 

“No.” 

“Please.” 

“Never.” 

“I´ll buy you the strings. A whole new guitar! Something else. Anything.” 

“You will regret it.” 

“I won´t. Just hit me.” 

“Argh…. Nelyo…” 

“I cannon bear it anymore! People don’t take me seriously. They are never interested in me. Just my looks.” Maitimo´s expression was desperate and sad once more. Macalaurë rearranged the shawl that kept unravelling. He rolled his eyes and then grumbled something. 

“What?” 

“I said alright.” 

“Really?” Maitimo felt more ecstatic than he had in months and when Macalaurë nodded he nearly bounced up and down with joy. Macalaurë took him by the hand and dragged him to the side. 

“Just quickly. Where should I do it.” 

“My nose!” he replied eagerly, smiling brightly. 

“No, I meant where, someone might see us,” Maglor said, looking around the street. 

“Hm… let´s go to the park, it will be quiet there!” Maitimo pointed across the street to where the rather jumbled tree line began. 

“What will you even tell everyone? Mom and dad, when they ask?” Macalaurë asked him as the traffic light turned green. 

“I don’t know, that doesn’t matter anyway,” he replied, “I´ll say I fell on the street or… got into a fight in a bar.” Macalaurë scoffed. 

“Like you are the type to cruise night clubs and get into fist fights,” he told him, “too bad you´re not as clumsy as Carnistir... Alright… you fell.” They entered the park and looked around. The path to the left seemed empty so they chose it and came to a halt after a minute or two, thinking the walnut tree would hide them. Macalaurë stood opposite Maitimo and took a deep breath. 

“You really are tall.” 

“I can sit down.” 

“Don’t you dare.” Macalaurë raised his fist and with a lot of deliberation he finally struck Maitimo in the face, hitting the left side of his nose. Maitimo stumbled backwards and his hands instinctively flew to the injury. 

“Oww! Motherfucker, that hurts!” he whined and paused for a second, “alright, hit the other side, you have to break the bone.” Macalaurë glanced at him uneasily, inspected his fingers, looked around if anyone was watching them, took another breath and punched him again. 

“I´ll never forget this,” Maitimo said, rather nasally. 

“Me neither.” 

“You´re the best brother ever,” he said through the blood spilling down onto his chin, dripping on his sweater, “I love you so much.” Macalaurë swung him arm again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little does he know that Fëanáro will rush him to the ER and make sure his nose is treated and repaired. Little does Fëanáro know that Maitimo will somehow suffer another unfortunate nose injury soon afterwards.
> 
> Names in Quenya:  
> Maitimo, Nelyo = Maedhros  
> Macalaurë, Cáno = Maglor  
> Carnistir = Caranthir


End file.
